


just trust me, i got this (i’m an asshole, i’m toxic)

by despitethewives (choirboyharem)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, supermega
Genre: Alternate Universe - Brothers, M/M, Sibling Incest, hoo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/despitethewives
Summary: The most annoying comment they get on their videos (aside from people bitching about their music choices) is “They’re notreallybrothers, they look nothing alike”.
Relationships: Ryan Magee/Matt Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	just trust me, i got this (i’m an asshole, i’m toxic)

The most annoying comment they get on their videos (aside from people bitching about their music choices) is _“They’re not_ really _brothers, they look nothing alike”_. 

Which, like, no, they don’t. Obviously. Because Ryan’s adopted. But they’re not fucking stepbrothers. They’re not and they refuse to advertise as such. 

“It cheapens it,” Matt had explained when they were first starting to upload their content. “We’re not gonna fake our relationship just so it’s more marketable.”

“ _That’s_ more marketable?” Ryan had said, snorting dubiously. 

“I meah, yeah. It’s less scary to, like, the average viewer, right? People who are looking for the real shit are looking for real-life brothers. Brothers from birth. Two kids who have grown up together.”

“They’re looking for kids on PornHub? Sick fucks out there, dude.”

“I—no, look, shut up. Fuck you. They’re looking for actual fucking brothers. Not just guys forced together by marriage. _Actual_ brothers. Like, normal people will click on a stepbrother video ‘cause it’s kind of got the taboo there, but it’s not as intense. Real brothers are more of a niche that’s gotta be filled.” 

It has to be filled. It’s just gotta be. 

And, coincidentally, so does Matt. And he’s gotta be filled on camera. 

There’s something about being on camera that makes it feel less than real. When Ryan lifts his head and he can see his pixelated face in the viewfinder looking stricken and blushing, lips kissed dark and red, he feels like he’s trapped in that screen. Like he doesn’t exist outside of that. Matt exists, sure, with his hair stringy and damp with sweat and his mouth wet and open, eyes half-lidded, his dick leaking against Ryan’s thigh, but he doesn’t exist in the context of Ryan. Ryan knows Matt is there, both in the viewfinder and in real life. But Ryan’s brain still refuses to accept that what happens between them is real. 

It still feels like a joke. Like this is one very long, weird, fucked-up joke they’ve had running for five years and they refuse to quit because it’s supposed to be hilarious, but they stopped laughing ages ago. They’re still doing the same bit. 

_Wouldn’t it be crazy if we did this?_

_What if you let me do that?_

_How would this feel? Does this feel weird? It’s weird, right? Do you feel weird? Yeah, a little. Me too. Keep going._

Ryan wonders when reality is going to hit them. He’s fucking terrified of it, so he never brings it up. Not once. Matt hasn’t either. They just film their videos, make a little money, play video games, go out and get food at the strip mall, talk and bitch and abuse each other until three A.M., and film more videos. All to get out and escape the house. Just make enough for a deposit and then some. The rest of the time, Ryan doesn’t exist. That’s the first thing he can’t think about.

Matt exists, though. And not just when he's mirroring Ryan in the viewfinder. He exists when he’s in the kitchen, making the both of them sandwiches and chatting animatedly about anime or some shit, gesturing with a butter knife as one lost lock of hair bounces over his forehead. He exists when they’re crammed together on Matt’s twin bed, watching an objectively terrible movie that both of them are still emotionally attached to, yawning and rubbing his eyes under his glasses and saying “It’s, like, almost two”, to which Ryan will reply “Yeah”, and the movie will just keep playing on Matt’s tiny desktop TV. He exists when they’re going to 7-Eleven at just past twelve A.M. and he’s whining like a baby because Ryan shoved him into the side of a garbage can and claiming that Ryan needs to pay for his Slurpee to make up for the damage he’s done. So Ryan will shove him into another garbage can to win the argument and laugh when he hears “Ryan, _stop_ ” just after a clang, a scuffle, and a thud. 

Matt exists. Matt exists and he’s real. So fucking vividly real that he puts ink spots on the page where everyone else in Ryan’s life is. He obscures the names as the black spreads and swallows them up. The only place that he loses some of that opacity is whenever he plays the character that he puts on for the camera. 

That’s another thing that could send Ryan into an existential crisis: the difference between Matt’s character and the Matt that really exists. Sometimes Ryan will look at Matt when he’s inside him, watching his face and the way his eyelashes flutter, and think, _Who the fuck are you, man? Who are you right now? To me?_

“Ry,” Matt will choke out, grasping Ryan’s arm, his thighs shaking and his chest heaving. “Ryan, fuck, I’m gonna come.” 

“Yeah?” And Ryan will lose himself in it, forgetting to overthink, just showing off for the camera instead and thanking Christ that he’s managed to make it this long. He falls back into nonexistence when he talks to Matt again. “Gonna come for me? You gonna be a good boy for the camera and come for your big brother?”

“Yeah, God, fuck, I’m gonna—“ 

“Show me how good you are.” Ryan will see Matt as a tangle of dark hair and slim, scant, cigarette limbs, pink skin, a blur of sweat beneath him in this sacred pocket of time where they don’t have to be anything more than two bodies. “Show me, baby.” 

And Matt will draw taut and grasp a fistful of the sheets, shouting, dramatic and girlish as ever as he spills down his stomach, clenching tight enough that Ryan won’t be able to last another second. It feels like a sucker punch to the stomach, whitehot and fierce and almost blinding. Then he’ll forget who he’s supposed to be and who Matt’s supposed to be and if they’re in front of a camera or not because all that’ll matter is this, here, this few seconds where they’re only going to have each other in every physical and metaphorical way imaginable and that’s how things should be. 

Matt will edit the footage. He tells Mom he’s taking online courses. 

Neither their father nor their mother have ever seemed to notice. Not really, anyway. They notice _things_ , but not the bigger picture. Mom once saw a hickey on Matt’s neck and made a passive comment about it, forcing Matt to invent a girlfriend who ended up moving to Nevada the following month, as luck would have it. Ryan had gotten chewed out a little while later for having bitten Matt so hard on the arm that it was a violent watercolor of purple and red and their father had said they were too old to be fighting like that. They’d heard their mom’s all-too-familiar but terrifying _“Keep the noise down, boys”_ from downstairs one evening while they were on the floor of Ryan’s bedroom, too desperate to try out their dual camera setup to wait for the rest of the house to be empty. 

As long as they keep being careful, the thought will never enter their parents’ heads. In the meantime, they have to be scared of open doors and half-days, audio being a little too loud and USB drives getting left in plain sight. Being too reckless will kill them—as it should, honestly. As if Ryan could explain what they do and what they have to anyone. Like it’s easy to make excuses for sliding your hand between your baby brother’s legs under the dinner table to make him choke on his food. Like it’s so fucking simple to explain away the modeling pictures he sends you for video ideas, pictures where he’s beaming in a maid costume or drooling on a silicone dick or showing off lingerie that he got for cheap from Party City. 

Ryan can’t explain it to anyone else, and least of all himself. It’s still not real. He lives his life in a series of riffs where he’s his own side show act and Matt is the stupid, hyperactive kid he picked out in the front row to do all these shitty tricks with him. He’s just abusing the trust of this idiot teenager who loves him blind and has never really had control of his own adolescence. 

Matt loves him, and that’s the biggest thing that Ryan can’t think about. He can never think about that. He can never think about the fact that Matt fucking adores him because Ryan will feel that hollow, sick, sad, thick, gut-wrenching feeling, hot and slick like black tar seeping into his intestines and ruining his blood and making him permanently immobile and nonverbal and lethargic. It’s guilt thicker than anything you can see in any pit in L.A. 

Ryan will let it pull him under sometimes. When Matt is curled into him at night, hair in complete disarray and chest rising and falling easy, Ryan will close his eyes and feel the physical pull of it inside him. It’s almost cathartic, like pulling up a painful scab after it’s barely healed over. When Ryan rips the skin open, it bleeds instantly, beading in the center in one shiny, scarlet bubble. 

He touches it and it floods under his fingernail, making him dirty. 

**Author's Note:**

> trial run! sorta drumming up interest to see if anyone would want me to continue writing the “porn stars but also brothers” au, because i have a lot more ideas. waiting to see if maybe i’ll get positive feedback. what a screaming cry for help of a piece for my very first fic in this fandom, huh? 
> 
> the title is from _buzzkiller_ by qbomb.


End file.
